Undressed with the Marquess (Lost Lords of London #3) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,5
and Gwynn had met in the Cotswolds nearly five years ago when the other woman, a young widow, had just been hired. They’d clashed from the start . . . until they hadn’t. Until they’d realized they shared the same frustrations at their lot in life. And somewhere along the way, the two enemies had become sisters in a world where one was fortunate if she had even a single person whom she might rely upon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. She can’t be reasoned with.” Gwynn collected a swath of pink and held it aloft, concealing her mouth and affording them brief privacy from their employer. “That’s what you were thinking.” She paused. “And you can’t. Pink is her decision, and she cannot be swayed. Mayhap if we were real seamstresses in a fashionable modiste shop on New Bond Street. But the Cotswolds? This isn’t that place.”
Alas, at the end of the long working day, they’d always been practical enough to know that these were the best circumstances they were likely to ever know.
“Mrs. Swiiiift?” Mrs. Marmlebury called out. “Hallooo?”
From where she stood, helping a more distinguished, plumper-in-the-pockets-for-Cotswolds client, Madame Amelie paused to glance in Temperance and Gwynn’s direction.
“Just a moment, Mrs. Marmlebury,” Temperance said loudly so the nearly deaf woman might hear her. “I am just searching for the perfect options.” She reached for the apple green.
Gwynn pushed it from her reach and gave her a long look.
They locked in a silent war over the bolts.
It had taken a lifetime of mistakes to learn anything of true import; however, one area she’d always had remarkably in order and under control, the one thing that had made sense, was color. Temperance released a frustrated sigh. She made one more appeal. “No decent seamstress worth her weight in bolt would dare put that woman in this color.”
“Not Bond Street,” Gwynn repeated. “As such, no wise woman intending to keep her post would argue with the late Mr. Marmlebury.” She bowed her head in mock solemnity. “God rest his soul.”
A sharp bark of laughter burst from Temperance, and even as her customer and employer glanced her way, she had already disguised that mirth for a cough. “Stop,” she mouthed.
“Take the pink.” Gwynn enunciated each syllable.
“Mrs. Swiiiift. I do not have all day,” Mrs. Marmlebury whined.
In the end, Gwynn stole the decision. Grabbing the apple-green bolt, she thrust several pink ones against Temperance’s chest.
Temperance grunted and collected the armful.
Gwynn waved over at the old widow. “We’ve found lovely options for you, Mrs. Marmlebury. I trust you’ll be very pleased. Mrs. Swift is just bringing them over. Now,” her friend added under her breath for Temperance’s benefit. She followed that with a hard nudge in Temperance’s lower back, knocking her forward.
“Ouch.” Over her shoulder, Temperance flashed a frown. “That hurt.”
“Do you know what hurts worse than that?” Gwynn answered her own question. “Having no employment or funds to feed oneself or pay for rent or—”
“You’ve made your point,” Temperance muttered under her breath. Yes, her friend was correct. It was the unfortunate circumstance of the street-born that in the position they held, they didn’t have the luxury of speaking as freely as they wished. Or of having complete say over decisions that they were best equipped to make.
Nay, she’d learned firsthand with several sackings and docked pay that her words couldn’t be freely given. Not truly. Not if she wished to eat and survive and live . . .
There will come a day, love, when you’re going to do more than survive . . .
That voice slipped in, an echo of long ago, and yet still so very fresh in her mind.
You’re a damned fool still, all these years later, allowing him any real estate inside your mind . . .
“Mrs. Swift? Mrs. Swift?”
A kick to her shin, coupled with her name being called, brought her back.
Gwynn gave her a look. “What is going on?” she mouthed.
“I am fine.” Temperance retrained all her focus on her client. Returning to Mrs. Marmlebury, she guided the older woman back over to the mirrors. Temperance proceeded to hold the fabrics up, draping the silk over her client’s frame so she might see the color against her skin.
She didn’t think of Dare Grey often. Oh, in those earliest days, she’d been bereft . . . heartbroken . . . incapable of anything but tears and terror. Then she’d fought the memory of him because it had been too painful . . .